


Aenima

by Teland



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, It Has Song Lyrics In, Look It Was A Thing, M/M, Pretentiousness, This Fic Was Written In 1998, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-04-08
Updated: 1998-04-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 12:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20948081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: What if someone decided bombs weren't enough?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Obviously* not mine. Has lyrics stolen from -- *checks original notes* Tool and Tori Amos. Yep, I said it. 
> 
> Also, if you were somehow not warned away by the fact that this was written, literally, twenty-one and a half years ago, let me double down and say that I'm pretty sure that this is maybe the fifth thing I *ever* wrote to anything vaguely resembling completion which was not for a school assignment. Y'all are going to be seeing a lot of my dirty laundry for the next little while -- buckle up.

Prologue  
Freedom First Headquarters  
Just outside of Terma, North Dakota   
10/28/96   
2:34 am

One hundred and thirty-two true patriots filed into the   
converted barn and shuffled about to find comfortable   
spaces amidst a chorus of yawns and irritable mutters.

". . .this about. . ."

". . .beach with Pamela Anderson. . ."

". . .thresher blades. . ."

". . .hope he's quick. . ."

First Brother James Whitfield stood at perfect parade rest   
with his back turned to the assemblage and waited patiently   
for the restless scrapings and whispers to settle. The one   
high window showed a sky roiling with clouds, alternately   
hiding and framing a gibbous moon. Finally, silence   
reigned. It was time. He began to speak without turning.

"Brethren, I have received The Message."

Another startled chorus of murmurs--

". . .too soon. . ."

". . .need to set the. . ."

". . .Queens. . ."

\--broken abruptly when the leader turned. 

The front of Brother Whitfield's flak jacket had bloomed in   
color: a patchwork of stripes and medals pinned and   
stitched haphazardly, shreds of blue fabric winking against   
the olive in a last memory of a uniform long since burned   
in righteous fury. One hundred and thirty-one pairs of eyes   
looked a single question into the leader's own. The last   
was hidden behind the yanked-down bill of a baseball cap   
and had discreetly begun to scan for a way to make an exit.

"A Good Man of the Lord said unto me that the time for   
waiting is done, brethren. Tempus, edax rerum omnum, has   
turned our way at last. Tonight, we strike a *true* blow   
for freedom. While Brother Jacob had his heart in the right   
place when he formed our original plan, the aftermath of   
the Oklahoma City rebellion has proven that a harsher blow   
is necessary if anything is to change. In my hands I hold   
our salvation..."

The glass vial gleamed pinkly virulent in the intermittent   
shafts of moonlight.

". . .Jesus oh Jesus. . ."

". . ..what is that. . ."

"We must be strong, brothers. . ." his hand closed on the   
vial.

". . .oh please no. . ."

"Please, Brother James!! There've been no inoculations--"

"Yea, though we will be sorely tested in the days to come.   
. ." 

The fist began to clench.

". . .Fffuuuck. . ."

". . .don't do this. . ."

Brother James' feet tapped wildly on the rough platform as   
a flurry of gunshots sent him into a jittering, shuddering   
dance, but his soft smile never wavered.

"--sorely tested. . ."

A second stutter of pops, muted in the suddenly stifling   
air. His eyes closed as he fell, smile strangely beatific   
even with the blood flowing freely between his parted   
teeth.

One hundred and thirty-one pairs of eyes watched helplessly   
as the vial began to wink and tumble its way to the floor.   
Alex Krycek, however, had decided to leave. Alex knew   
*exactly* what was in that vial. As he wove his way through   
the stunned freedom fighters he steadfastly refused to hear   
the soft tinkle of breaking glass--the abortive attempt to   
halt its progress ending in animalistic wails of   
recrimination and terror. 

//Pay no attention to the little rat, he means no harm. .   
.//

He began to make his way across the grounds to the garage,   
cursing himself for giving them that helpful advice about   
clear sightlines.

//This was *not* the plan.//

Alex knew he hadn't yet filtered enough information to   
Mulder about the group for him to make the logical   
conclusions and agree to help him with his personal war   
against the consortium. 

//Step 1. Alex helps Mulder stop the bad guys from setting   
off that *nasty* bomb. (neglect to mention my help in its   
design) Step 2. Mulder, loosened up just a *little* by   
Alex's act of beneficence, agrees to listen to Alex. Step   
3\. Alex calmly and logically explains his plan to take down   
the consortium, or at the very least Cancerman. Step 4.   
Everything goes beautifully well and Mulder's just so damn   
*pleased* he can't help but make a grab for his own lovely   
ankles.//

//Step 5. The nice young men in their clean white coats   
come to take you *far* away--//

//*Please* shut up.//

Alex heard the unmistakable shift of sound that indicated   
the militiamen had finally noted his escape attempt. He   
gave up all attempts at stealth and started sprinting for   
the garage. The shouts were for him now.

//Oh but *noooo*. A bomb designed to take out four fucking   
square blocks is suddenly not *good* enough for you. You   
people just *had* to start fucking around with the seven   
goddamn seals--//

"Arntzen! Freeze!"

//What, you want to be a fucking *cop* for Halloween,   
*Brother*?//

He felt a bullet tear through the arm of his leather jacket   
and let the impact guide him slightly, gun already out and   
blazing even as he spun. Four quick shots, three men down.   
A brief pause as he realized that the man he'd missed was   
unarmed and had raised his hands in surrender.

"Don't--"

//Fuck it.//

"You'll thank me for this later, Isaac." 

A body fell.

"Or maybe not." 

Within 15 minutes, Alex Krycek was speeding eastward,   
furiously working on a way to make this latest turn of   
events work to his advantage.

I.

Only way to fix it is to flush it all away...

Days Inn  
Bismarck, North Dakota  
10/28/96  
7:00 pm

A crisp white sheet of paper, harsh words made sharper by   
the slices of sunlight through cheap venetian blinds:

//tests universally positive//

The smoking man picked up the phone as it rang. It was   
pleasant to have punctual employees.

"Report."

"Sir. The hounds have been scattered as per your orders,   
sir. But. . ."

//lymphoma//

"What?"

"Sir, we were only able to chase off a dozen or so of the   
original 132. . ."

The lackey heard nothing but the sensual drag of smoke   
through raddled lungs and continued, his voice trembling   
almost unnoticeably.

"Sir. . .they had started. . ." (an audible swallow) ". .   
.killing each other. . ."

//A woman with a knife to her (in her)child's ear. A man   
chewing his own fingers. Another with his face. . .his   
face. . .oh god oh god oh god...//

The smoking man let the silence build painfully,   
ludicrously, longer, took another brief drag and coughed a   
little, red droplets spattering unnoticed on white paper...

//metastasized throughout 70% of your//

A smile made not noticeably more feral by the blood on his   
teeth. . .He'd never actually listened as a man went mad   
before. . .Perhaps this time? But no. . .a shuddering   
breath from the other end of the phone line as the man   
pulled himself back together.

"What should be done with the b-bodies, Sir?"

This one was strong. . .it was almost too bad. . .

//terminal//

Almost.

Inhale.

"Leave them lie. You have done well. Collect your   
associates and report back here. I will be waiting."

Exhale.

"Yes, Sir."

The Smoking Man replaced the phone on the receiver. A dozen   
hounds released to the four winds. . .a touch here, a   
caress there. . .the Pale Rider triumphant in every germ-  
ridden contact . . .It would be enough. 

II. 

Some say the end is near. . .

Delta Flight 457  
Bismarck to Dulles  
Somewhere over West Virginia  
10/29/96  
4:12 am

Onboard Hostess Kathleen Donnely stormed into the cockpit,   
not bothering to gentle the door's automatic slam.

"What's shakin', Miss Kitty?" 

She didn't bother to answer her friend (and occasional   
fuckbuddy) the co-pilot, just jerked the first-aid kit off   
the wall, slipped out the bottle of vodka secreted inside,   
and silently began to inhale the contents.

"Jesus, Kate, geese stepping on your last nerve?"

"Just the one, Freddy. Just the one. . .and I think we need   
to get him off the plane. Now."

"The drunk we took on in ND?"

"That's him. . .only. . ."

"Only what?"

"I don't think too many shooters are this guy's problem,   
Freddy. At least, not the only one." She almost whispered   
this last, and lifted the rapidly emptying bottle to her   
lips again--only to have it snatched away by the navigator.

"What *is* it, Kate? Spell it out."

"He. . .Mr. Jethro T. Briggs in Seat 16C is feverish,   
raving and, to the best of my knowledge, stark staring mad.   
At present he is locked in the Coach bathroom screaming   
about the Apocalypse and, presumably, bleeding all over our   
nice clean head."

"Bleeding? Wha--?"

"Oh yes. Perhaps I didn't mention this before: Before   
locking himself away from those pesky demons--they were, of   
course, *watching* him--Mr. Briggs saw fit to pull out his   
own tongue and hand it to me."

The seated men watched, paralyzed to inaction, as a small,   
trembling hand reached into a burgundy pocket.

"Please God, don't--"

"Here you go, Freddy. Captain, I'd suggest you put in a   
call to the authorities and get us a priority landing. And   
somebody give me back that bottle. Now."

III.

Some say we'll see Armageddon soon...

Somewhere between North Dakota and D.C.  
I-76  
10/29/96  
4:57 pm

Alex had been on the road for more than 36 hours. The floor   
of the truck was littered with half crushed styrofoam cups,   
cigarette butts, and grease soaked wrappers. The gash in   
his left arm had finally quit leaking some hours back, but   
continued to burn maddeningly under the hastily slapped on   
gauze. His eyes drifted closed.

And immediately snapped open at the wail of a siren behind   
him. He slammed the wheel, making a conscious decision to   
let his terror at falling asleep behind the wheel shift to   
a cold rage. . .then swiftly mutate to shocked humor.

//Did those militia psychos actually report the stolen   
truck to the *cops*?!//

He shook his head ruefully as he pulled over to the   
shoulder.

//Well, you *were* looking for an excuse to dump this   
rolling heap after it tried to die in. . .Indiana, was   
it?//

//*Nothing* dies 'til I say so dammit.//

//So we lost time for you to fix the damned thing--//

//Shut up.//

"Step out of the vehicle, sir." She was nearly as tall as   
he was and vaguely attractive in a businesslike way.

He complied swiftly, almost grateful for the chance to   
stretch his abused limbs. The trooper took in the reddened   
eyes, unshaven cheeks, bloodstained shirt and let her hand   
slide to her already unsnapped holster.

"Turn around, put your hands behind your head, and spread   
your legs." The trooper had her hand on the gun butt. One   
look at her cold grey eyes and he realized no amount of   
charm was going to get him out of this one.

He sighed regretfully for a moment as he slowly moved to   
obey the orders. Green eyes narrowed as he used his   
peripheral vision to regard the Smokey carefully. . .There.   
She was going to use both hands to frisk him. 

//Tch. These kids today. . .//

Right foot to right shin, a whipcrack twist at the waist to   
send an upraised elbow to the ear, the snakelike strike of   
a palm heel to the bridge of her nose *just* as her head   
snapped back in fury. . .It was an old dance, and one that   
Alex had long since mastered.

"Sorry, beautiful. I've got places to go and people to see.   
. .Another time perhaps?" Grey eyed raged silently at the   
gunmetal sky as Alex giggled in mild hysteria.

"I suppose not." 

Alex lifted the body gently and took a few moments to   
arrange it properly in the driver's seat of the squad car,   
smirking privately at his careful placement of the notebook   
in its lap. It would buy him some time. He briefly   
considered taking the hat--he'd always wanted one--but   
decided that it would invite too many uncomfortable   
questions. He had to keep moving. It was possible--just   
possible--that a timely warning to Mulder could avert the   
worst of this almighty cockup. . .and get the man friendly   
enough to return the favor.

IV.

Certainly hope we will...

FBI Headquarters  
Basement Office  
10/30/96  
11:08 am

KaaaaaaaAAHHH-CHOO!!

"Ooohh. . .Scully, I think I saw your lungs this time." 

Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully was really not in the   
mood for Mulder's "humor." The steely blue eyes were   
clouded and swollen, the hair impossibly mussed from the   
force of her sneezes, the mood. . .glacial.

"Scully? Are you sure you shouldn't just go home? Mrs.   
Scully would never forgive me if I--"

She cut him off with a well-aimed eyebrow.

"I'm *fine*, Mulder. The flu's just making the rounds as   
usual this year. Besides, we have a ton of paperwork to   
catch up on--and didn't you say something about recei--ah--  
rece--*gasp*--CHOO!!!"

Blue eyes squinted shut. Hair flew. Mood dipped perilously   
close to absolute zero.

"Receipts, Scully. Really Dana, as pink and lovely as your   
lungs are--"

The eyebrow twitched, failed to reach its usual altitude.   
Mulder, encouraged, barrelled on.

"I really think you should take off early today. *I* feel   
fine--" The eyebrow appeared to be gathering strength and   
Mulder quickly changed tactics. "That is, you've been doing   
much more than your fair share of the paperwork lately; I   
don't mind finishing this stuff up." This last in a rush.

Scully began to gird herself for the coming battle. A deep   
breath. A nearly imperceptible purse of the lips. A slight   
twitch at the corner of her eye. She was sick, but she was   
still armed.

"Mul--"

"Receipts, Scully. I was going to tell you about these   
strange receipts someone's been sending me. I've got a   
theory. . ."

Mulder let the bait dangle.

Scully struggled valiantly against the obvious ruse. 

"Mulder, I don't want to talk abo--"

He slowly raised both index fingers behind his head in the   
universal symbol for antennae. She sighed. . .battle lost.

"Let me guess, Mulder: Reticulan tax problems? Interstellar   
audits, perhaps?"

Mulder smiled inwardly. Like holding shiny things in front   
of a hillbilly.

"C'mon, Scully, I'll tell you all about it on our way to--"

"I am *not* going home, Mulder."

His lips twitched minutely as she shook her head.

"--lunch, Scully. C'mon, I heard about this great new Thai   
place. . ."

A suspicious scowl formed on her just-a-little-too-pale   
face, approached near-Skinneresque proportions, then turned   
to a wry smile as Mulder crooked his elbow in an   
endearingly courtly fashion. He wasn't playful nearly often   
enough. They left the office, both knowing full well that   
Scully wouldn't be coming back after lunch. Her grin turned   
wicked as she began to think of ways to make the inevitable   
denouement as painful as possible for Fox "Jewish Mother of   
Doom" Mulder.

V.

I sure could use a vacation from this...

Somewhere in Southeast D.C.  
10/30/96  
6:35 p.m.

Two dead troopers, three stolen cars and several quarts of   
coffee after leaving North Dakota, Alex Krycek arrived in   
the greater D.C. area. Exhaustion had kept him from making   
any efforts to conceal the second body, and it had caused   
him no small amount of worry--until he'd arrived in   
Washington. Having kept to the highways he hadn't been   
witness to the afteraffects of the Smoking Man's scattering   
attempts. However, after catching two far too brief hours   
of rest in a cheap motel, Alex's return to city streets was   
greeted by the absolute worst rush hour he had ever   
witnessed. Foul tempered motorists had given up horn-  
blowing for the simple expedient of ramming other cars.   
He'd narrowly avoided running over three bodies on the   
Beltway and a rather distressing squelch from the vicinity   
of his right rear tire suggested a fourth his attention had   
missed. It seemed that his own contributions to the day's   
carnage would probably go unnoticed. 

//How did it get here ahead of me?//

//Planes, idiot, planes! *They're* not being hunted like   
animals, remember?//

//Damn. Fine. You're right. Just shut up, though, ok? Now   
is not the time for a heart to heart.//

//Fine, I'll just talk to myself.//

Caught up in--and quickly losing--an argument with himself,   
he almost missed his target stepping out of the corner   
deli. Much to his irritation, Mulder did not immediately   
head back to his apartment, but instead got back in his   
Bucar.

//Dammit, Mulder, stay *still*.//

//Like he'll listen to you.//

//Please shut up.//

//Stop telling him to shut up, asshole.// 

Alex sighed tiredly and decided to follow him--

//Who knows? Maybe he'll park in a nice dark alley.//

\--only to stop abruptly when he realized where Mulder was   
leading him.

//No *way* am I gonna pay a visit on Scully. As bitter as   
Mulder is, *he* at least can be made to listen to reason. .   
.//

//Oh, is this before or after he beats the crap out of   
you?// 

//Christ, remember the bad stuff why don't you? Look, he's   
probably just making her work overtime on some damn case. .   
.//

//On a Friday? Now I know why she shot him.//

//And. He'll. Be. Done. Soon. We--Fuck!--*I'll* just sit   
here and catch him on his way out.//

//Tch.//

VI.

I've a suggestion to keep you all occupied...

Outside Dana Scully's Apartment  
10/30/96  
7:15 pm

"Open up, Scully! I made you some chicken soup."

Silence.

"C'mon, Scully, I just had the *worst* drive out here and I   
already *said* I was sorry about the tickling. . ."

Silence.

"OK, I admit it. I *bought* the chicken soup."

Silence.

"It's got maaaaatzoh balls. . ."

Silence.

"Dana?"

Mulder knocked a little harder this time, only to see the   
door swing open onto darkness.

"Oh Jesus no--Dana--!" His planned rescue was cut short by   
a sharp blow to the back of his skull, followed swiftly by   
a well placed kick that flipped him onto his back. Fox   
Mulder looked up fuzzily to see his partner standing stark   
naked above him, gun pointed squarely between his eyes,   
face frozen in a blind-eyed snarl.

"No matzoh for you..." 

He passed out.

****  
. . .Learn to swim. . .  
****

Mulder regained consciousness to a strange burning   
sensation on the right side of his chest.

"Wha--?"

"One great big festering neon distraction." Scully was   
still quite naked, save for a pink quilted oven mitt on her   
right hand.

//Why is she holding those forceps?//

"Scully. . .what's happening?" He moved to go to his   
partner. Tried to move. A painful examination of his state   
found him to be just as naked. . .and tied securely to the   
bed in 4-point restraints. With a shiny new 14-gauge gold   
ring in his right nipple. He began to worry. "Dana?"

"You're breathing so I guess you're still alive. . ." This   
last in a parody of sultriness as she knelt on the bed and   
began a slide up his body.

"Dana. . .I'm flattered. . .really, but--"

He lost his thread as Scully gripped his rapidly hardening   
cock and began a slow stroke.

"Even though signs seem to tell me otherwise. . ." she   
chuckled throatily and began to squeeze rhythmically along   
with the strokes.

"Scully! Please, you've got a fever, you're del--"

Soft lips, sharp little teeth at his throat and that hand--

"Scully, I don't--oh god--want you to do anything you'll   
re--"

A tongue in his ear. Nails scraping his nipples.

"Ow! Scu--"

She began a full out assault on his mouth. . .teeth pulled   
his lower lip, a tongue slipped teasingly under his own and   
almost in self defense (he told himself) he thrust it into   
her willing mouth. Black flowers had begun to bloom behind   
his eyelids before she pulled back and sat on her heels   
with a frighteningly blank grin. Jesus. One last try.

"Dana..."

She licked her palm.

He swallowed with a click and continued. "You don't really   
want to--"

The slicked hand found its destination and worked him a   
little faster. She bent at the knees and moved back up his   
trembling form, trailing her nipples along his abdomen and   
chest as she went, to finally stop with her lips against   
his ear again.

"Don't..." His eyes were closed tightly against the   
sensations and his struggles grew more perfunctory.

A quick move and she was straddling him; her tongue frigged   
his ear lewdly and her hand never stopped pumping. Some dim   
part of her fevered brain recognized the need to comfort   
now and she carefully schooled her tone to normality.

"Mulder. . ."

His eyes flew open again. Was she coming back to herself? 

"Mulder, I know. . ." Teeth found his lobe and tugged   
gently. "I know you've seen fire, Mulder. . .But you've   
never seen fire. . ." A sudden lift and twist of her hips   
and she impaled herself on him.

"Aaahhh--" His hands instinctively tried to move to her   
hips.

"Until you've seen Pele blow. . ."

He resisted no more.

She bit off the scream of her orgasm in the flesh of his   
shoulder and immediately dropped into unconsciousness, her   
forehead seeming to burn a brand into his own flushed and   
tortured chest. Mulder's own orgasm was finished in a body   
as still as a corpse and he cried a little before falling   
asleep himself, still helpless in his bonds.

****  
Some say a comet will fall from the sky  
Followed by meteor showers and tidal waves  
Followed by fault lines, cannot sit still  
Followed by millions of dumbfounded dipshits...  
Some say the end is near...  
****

It was the cold that finally woke him this time. All   
throbbing skull and strained muscles. He groaned.

"Rise and shine, *loverboy*."

He opened his eyes to see that Scully had somehow found the   
presence of mind to put on some ragged sweats. He could see   
her shiver in the moonlight streaming from the window, face   
alternately flushed and livid with fever, but her hand--her   
*gun* holding hand--never wavered.

//Ohshitohshitohshit--//

"Did you enjoy yourself, Fox?" The voice was ice cold but   
she had been. . .weeping. . .

//ohshit//

"You couldn't get me in the sack while I was well and whole   
so you got your buddies in the Consortium to whip up a   
little virus, didn't you?"

//What the fuck?!// "Scully--"

"Shut! Up!"

The growling scream bought his teeth together hard. Looking   
at her was like watching a car accident. . .he couldn't   
pull his eyes away even as his balls tried to crawl back   
into his body.

"I was such a fool for you, Mulder. You and your precious   
truth. You took me apart a piece at a time you sonofabitch,   
and I think it's about time I returned the favor." A knife   
blade smile. The gun shifting to his shriveling groin.   
Krycek with an upraised blackjack. The safety clicked off.

//*Krycek*????//

Mulder's jaw worked silently as he watched his partner   
slide bonelessly to the floor.

"Jesus, Mulder, what *is* it with you and your partners?"   
Alex asked, putting a tone of blatantly false sympathy in   
his voice.

At the sound of Krycek's voice Mulder was able to muster a   
little self-control and he managed to slap a mask of   
outraged contempt on his face.

"You fucking rat bastard! If she's hurt--"

"C'mon *Fox*, let's at least *try* to remember which one of   
us is bare ass naked, covered in come, and chained to a bed   
here."

Mulder let his lips curl in a sneer. "Jealous?" 

//What is *with* that hair?//

"In all honesty, tempted would be a better word. . .nice   
ring by the way. . .but that's neither here nor there. We   
have a serious problem, Fox."

Mulder felt his jaw working again and closed it abruptly.   
There was so much wrong with that sentence that he honestly   
had no clue where to begin. Keep it simple.

"We? There is no 'we', Krycek--"

"Not yet, to my *immense* regret, Foxy. . ." Alex let his   
voice drop to a husky whisper that somehow lost none of its   
overall seriousness for all its mocking overtones as he ran   
a tickling finger up the sole of Mulder's foot. The agent   
squirmed despite himself.

//Damn, wrong choice.//

"But I already said that *that* wasn't the issue at hand   
here." Alex pulled his finger back and gripped the   
footboard as he stared at the older man. "Shut up and let   
me explain a few things to you. Two days ago Brother James,   
the head of the Freedom First militia group, called a   
meeting of the entire compound and announced a change in   
plans. They *had* been working at an Oklahoma City style   
act of *rebellion*--" he let the full force of his contempt   
coat the word.

"You sent the receipts--"

Alex cut him off with a curt nod. "Apparently a certain   
smoking gentleman of our mutual acquaintance gave Brother   
James a better plan. And a vial of genetically engineered   
plague to go along with it." He let his glance fall   
meaningfully on Scully's body. "The good ol' boys didn't   
react very well at all to the change and I was able to slip   
out when the shooting started. I've been on the road the   
past two days to warn you about it, but I can see that I'm   
at least a *little* too late."

//Scully// "A *little*?!"

Alex rapped him casually on the knee with his blackjack   
before Mulder could gear himself up for one of his patented   
rages.

"I said shut up and listen, Mulder. Even with the   
contaminated militiamen scattered to god knows where,   
there's still a chance. When I was with the Consortium   
there was talk of a Doctor Goralev--one of the assholes who   
*made* this thing in the first place. Two years ago he was   
in an unmapped village called Tunguska, in Russia, and had   
been there for at least two decades. It's probable that he   
still is and it's *possible* that he has a cure. Or at   
least a vaccine. Take me to Tunguska and I'll help you find   
him."

"I can go by myself--"

"Oh, so within the past two years you've become fluent in   
Russian *and* gained contacts in the KGB?"

Mulder began to feel like he was drowning in information,   
and his current state of undress was doing nothing for his   
concentration. He filtered through the mass of data to find   
something concrete to pounce on. "KGB? What do they have to   
do with it?"

"I said unmapped, Mulder. Tunguska is on government owned   
land; Goralev worked for the KGB's science division under   
Kruschev . . .among other jobs. You need me, Mulder. Use   
me."

Mulder blinked a few times while the truth of Alex's last   
statement sank in. Finally he seized on the one question   
his mind could come up with; really, the most important   
one.

"Why?"

Alex stood up and grinned cheekily. "Maybe it's that   
*fascinating* mole. . ."

"Krycek--"

He took a deep breath and continued. "I've already booked a   
flight overseas in your name, Mulder. We can talk on the   
plane. I promise to answer all of your questions that I   
can, then. Detente?"

Mulder looked at him in amazement for a moment, and his   
eyes darkened in anger. Alex had been prepared for the   
inevitable mood swing and gave another pointed glance at   
Scully's still form. 

//I can't fail her again.//

Mulder sighed tiredly and set his jaw in grim resolve.   
"Detente."

Alex gave him a wry salute, pulled a knife seemingly out of   
nowhere, and efficiently cut the straps. As Mulder sat up   
and began to rub some life back into his tired muscles   
Krycek spoke. "When the ambulance comes have them put her   
in isolation. . .it probably won't do any good at this   
point, but. . ." he trailed off at the look on Mulder's   
face.

"Right. The plane leaves at 6:15 a.m. from Dulles. . ." He   
turned and walked to the door. As Mulder reached for his   
cell phone Alex couldn't resist a parting shot. "Oh, and   
Mulder? Could you try to avoid starring in any more snuff   
films before then? See you soon." The door closed behind   
him--not entirely muffling his quiet laughter.

"Smartass," said Mulder, and dialed.


	2. Chapter 2

Why this preoccupation, soul, with Death,  
This servile genuflexion to the worm,  
Making the tomb a Mecca where the breath  
(Though still it rises vaporous, but firm,  
expelled from lungs still clear and unimpaired,  
To plough through nostrils quivering with pride)  
Veers in distress and love, as if it dared  
Not search a gayer place, and there subside?

Because the worm shall tread the lion down  
And in the end shall sicken at its feast  
And for a worm of even less renown  
Loom as a dread but subjugated beast;  
Because whatever lives is granted breath  
But by the grace and sufferance of Death.  
\--Countee Cullen: Sonnet Dialogue

I.

I can't imagine why you wouldn't   
Welcome any change, my friend.

Thomas Downey High School  
Pool Area  
Modesto, California  
10/31/96  
12:37 a.m.

There were four of them. Senior water polo players all,   
doing some early celebration of their near inevitable   
coming championship with 3 six packs of Schlitz and a   
bottle of Night Train. One a.m. and feelin' fine. . .well,   
except for Tommy Gratian. Tomas. The Graccionissimo. Grey   
Schwaun. But that was nothing new either, really; the   
diminutive "gunner" and captain of the squad always seemed   
to catch every little virus that came down the pike.   
However, he certainly hadn't made captain for being a   
whiner. No, as per usual, Tommy had steadfastly refused to   
let anyone acknowledge his feverish and somewhat glassy   
eyed state until he had a good reason for it. Like the   
Night Train.

"Ian you twisted fuck, "

"Yes, faggot?"

T-Bone and Jade laughed delightedly as they settled back   
against the tiles to watch the coming show. The name   
calling and occasional wrestling was a delicious game,   
funny for its outrageous obscenities--lovely in its barely   
couched violence. You could always count on Tommy for some   
wonderfully entertaining faux drunken belligerence. 

"Who you callin' a faggot, asshole?"

Porter smirked. "You weren't so touchy on your knees last   
night, sweet stuff."

"Oh he's got you there, Greyshwaaaaun."

Quiet chuckles bounced off the water and rose in relaxed   
waves to the rafters. Tommy turned from his friends and   
found himself mutely entranced by the sound, with how it   
seemed to mesh so perfectly with the dancing moonlight   
reflected from the pool to the bleachers. . .He raised a   
hand to his burning face and wasn't at all surprised to   
find it wet. A lightly strained whisper as bronzed   
shoulders began to shake: "Three ring circus sideshow of   
Freaks..."

"Speak up or drink, Sparky."

A little stronger now: "You weren't supposed to know. . ."

Jade nearly fell over laughing, beer fizzing over concrete,   
as Ian and T-Bone found themselves paralyzed in dismayed   
mirth. The game had never gone *this* way before. . .They   
wondered if Tommy knew what a perfect picture he was   
presenting: Head bent just *so*, bleached hair flopping   
tiredly in a still hidden face, legs splayed as if to brace   
a weakened form. . .T-Bone recovered first and sashayed   
over to his captain, gripping his shoulders hard and   
beginning an exaggerated parody of a sensual massage,   
completely oblivious to Tommy's startled gasp. 

"Oh *Tommy*. . .*why* didn't you juth thay tho?"

Jade managed to reign in his amusement just enough to join   
in, "Yeth, thweetie, *why*?" running his tongue around the   
bottle of cheap wine at Ian's hastily constructed leer.   
Suddenly T-Bone was spluttering for air in the pool.

"What the *fuck* Gratian?!" 

Shock-tinged laughter twined jaggedly with the freshly   
disturbed waves. . .Tommy noted that the water and sound   
still retained their original symmetry as he turned and   
silently bent to retrieve an empty bottle that had rolled   
almost to his feet. Now only T-Bone couldn't see that   
Tommy's eyes had gone dead black with rage and sorrow.

"Gratian?"

"What's the deal, man?"

Jade finally stood up and began to walk over to him--only   
to instinctively fall to the floor as Tommy smashed the   
bottle hard on the concrete. Thick shards of brown glass   
flew through the air in all directions, several peppering   
Jade's prone form. One caught T- Bone in the eye, burying   
itself in his brain before he could duck beneath the   
surface. Ian alone remained unscathed, face and chest   
paling rapidly beneath his deep tan.

"Tommy?"

The boy in question quickly raked mangled fingers through   
the scattered fragments until he found the perfect piece.   
He stood up straight and held it aloft, marveling briefly   
at the motion of light in its smoky depths. . .

//This, too, is perfect//

. . .before abruptly punching it halfway through his   
eagerly outstretched throat and beginning to pull it   
roughly across his neck.

Ian sucked in a breath as the first burst of arterial blood   
hit him square in the face.

"Tommy, noo--!"

A scream aborted by the tang of copper in his mouth. . .

//his blood oh fuck it's his blood//

Tommy fell to his hands and knees before he could finish   
the job, blood flowing across the floor and into the pool   
where T-Bone's body floated. The glass in his throat   
waggled obscenely as he tried to speak to Ian, but in the   
end he couldn't force out a sound. He finally settled for   
his usual megawatt grin and collapsed.

II.

'Cause I have found  
all that shimmers in this world is sure to fade  
away  
again

St. Jude's Memorial Hospital  
Outside the Isolation Ward  
Washington, D.C.  
10/31/96  
2:49 a.m.

SA Fox Mulder stood in the hallway and began to rub his   
temples, completely unaware that his body had begun to sway   
tiredly to some vague internal rhythm. Scully had finally   
stopped screaming. Upon being freed from his bonds, Mulder   
had immediately dialed 911 and gone to check on her before   
remembering his own nudity. Realizing that the paramedics   
would be arriving soon and would undoubtedly want some   
explanations, he found himself scurrying around the   
apartment in search of his clothes. Deeply relieved that   
Scully hadn't found the time to do more than slash his   
boxers to shreds,

//I am *not* going to think about that right now.//

he quickly yanked on his jeans and t-shirt. . .only to howl   
in misery as the fabric abraded his new body art. Pawing   
through her medicine cabinet, he found a container of   
Bactine and gingerly pulled the fabric away from his   
swollen nipple to spray most of the canister's contents on   
the burning flesh. He then walked back to the bedroom and   
arranged the coverlet as discreetly as he could before   
settling down to wait. And wait.

//. . .must be a busy night. . .//

//The plague.//

//I'm not going to think about *that*, either.// 

It was a full 45 minutes before the paramedics arrived--  
looking harried and disheveled and working in silence save   
for the most perfunctory of questions as they prepared   
Scully for transport. When they lifted her she begun to   
stir, coming awake fully in the ambulance, so far lost in   
her fever that she was convinced she was being abducted   
again. She had started keening in anger and fear and Mulder   
had instinctively moved to comfort her. . .and immediately   
backed away when her wails had taken on a tone of gut-  
wrenching heartache at his apparent betrayal.

//Jesus, Scully I can't lose you again. . .//

Images of the previous night's events began to dance   
through his mind unbidden as he remembered. . .

//God she'll never forgive me for that. . .I'll never   
forgive myself.//

Mulder and Scully had been partners for more than three   
years, never fully losing touch even when the X Files had   
been shut down. Even though he'd always found her   
attractive he’d chosen not to act on his feelings, at first   
burying them under instinctive mistrust, then relievedly   
allowing them to shift to a grateful friendship. That   
friendship had bloomed from his admiration over her stolid   
professionalism in dealing with the attraction he knew she   
also felt. By now their partnership was so deeply ingrained   
it would have been unthinkable for either of them to try to   
change it.

//Just get better, Scully. We can deal with this.//

//Hell, with a fever like that she might not even   
remember.// He brightened visibly at that thought and   
smiled wryly at his chest. The doctors had given him a   
supply of antibiotics for it, just to be safe.

//I'll tell her it jams the subliminal messages from the   
CIA.// 

Mulder checked his watch and his mood sank again. The plane   
left in less than four hours and he wasn't looking forward   
to explaining his upcoming trip to Russia.

//Call Skinner while he's still sleepy and vulnerable. .   
."forget" to mention the identity of my source. . .it'll be   
OK once we get the cure. Get back here and lock the smarmy   
bastard away. What's his stake in this, anyway? Never mind.   
I'll get the answer if I have to beat it out of him.   
Fascinating mole, my ass. *Please* let me have to beat it   
out of him.//

//For complimenting you?//

//Shut. Up.//

Shaking himself out of his musings, he flipped open his   
cell phone and dialed Skinner's number. The phone rang only   
twice before the A.D. picked up, but Mulder didn't allow   
himself to dwell on that right away, instead launching into   
his prepared spiel.

"Sir-I'm-sorry-to-disturb-you-at-this-hour-but-there's-  
something -you-need-to-know-I-have -reason-to--"

"Ease off the accelerator, Mulder, I wasn't asleep. Ka-  
CHOO! *sniffle* This damn flu bug is keeping me awake.   
What's the trouble?"

Mulder clenched his fists and froze.

//Might be just a cold// //Can you take that chance?//

"What *is* it, Agent Mulder?"

//What do I tell him?//

//Lie through your teeth. Have the hospital call his office   
about Scully later in the day. Call him in two days. If   
he's better by then you can apologize//

//If. Jesus.//

"Mulder?" Irritation was now clearly audible in the hoarse   
voice.

"Sir, I--"

"What?!"

"I was thinking you were right about my needing to take   
some time off. . .I. . .I'm beginning to lose focus and I'm   
going to take a few days off and rest. Effective   
immediately, if at all possible, sir."

Mulder heard the A.D. sigh tiredly, his mind providing a   
crystal clear image of the older man rubbing the bridge of   
his nose in exasperation at Mulder's latest insanity. He   
couldn't help but wonder if he would ever see that gesture   
again.

"Mulder. . .*koff*. . .That's fine, Mulder. Go get some   
rest. And let the rest of us get some too, huh?"

"Yes, sir." But Skinner had already hung up.

After placing a second phone call to CDC headquarters in   
Atlanta, the agent left for his shabby apartment, for once   
with only one thought running through his mind.

//When do I get sick?//

III.

But, for one  
sweet moment   
I'm whole. . .

Meadowlands Complex  
E. Rutherford, NJ  
Parking Area 3B  
10/31/96  
4:58 a.m.

It was unseasonably warm and dry that fall, cracked and   
bubbling mud visible beneath disturbingly tall sawgrass in   
the marshlands surrounding the massive complex. The women   
relaxing in the old black pickup were comfortable in only   
their streetclothes; the stocky one in baggy jeans and a   
plain men's t-shirt, her lithe companion plucking irritably   
at a short floral dress. The moon cast a spotlight on the   
vehicle, greying the red highlights in the larger one's   
tight cornrows and socketing dark hollows under the other's   
mismatched eyes. Theirs was the only car in the parking   
lot; the race track stragglers, reeking of a fevered   
desperation that had little enough to do with the sickness,   
had departed hours before. The air itself was now a heady   
mixture of autumnal purity and carcinogenic fumes, ratio   
shifting with every gust of wind across the flat landscape.

Kel Green smiled wryly at the woman perched precariously on   
the large bundle in the bed of the truck and made a little   
show of lighting her cigarette.

"I think we may have just crossed the line, Nikki. . ."

"There was a line?" 

Nikki Schade grinned at her lover and guilelessly blinked   
with kohl-darkened lids.

Kel coughed a little, propped her feet between the other's   
bare legs and continued. "Well. . .I certainly saw no   
problem with sending you in to that bar to play Tipsy Femme   
Slut--"

"*I* had a problem with that." Nikki crossed her arms and   
began to tap her foot at Kel, narrowly avoiding falling out   
of the truck as she pretended not to notice the other   
woman's dry hack.

//Too many cowboy killers, Wolfie//

"Hey, *I* wasn't the one who got threatened with   
*desertion* if I ever put on a skirt again, sugar. Besides.   
. ." Kel nudged her gently with a steel-tipped toe to make   
her giggle. "You look raht purdy in florals, mama."

"Awww. . .yew shore talk sweet, baby."

"We aim to please, sweet thang. Anywho, I approved heartily   
of your technique when I saw you expertly cull that no-  
necked troglodyte from his little herd. . ."

"I try."

"And it took real originality to use his own flask of Beam   
to deep clean the man once we'd gotten him here--"

"You *know* I couldn't risk contaminating the toys."

"Of course; but there was still plenty left in that bottle   
of overproof rum we boosted last night. Using his own booze   
showed a certain. . ."

"Highly advanced level of poetic awareness?"

"Precisely."

"It's why you love me." 

"Mmm...true, true. But. . ."

"Yes?" She retrieved her pearl-handled straight razor with   
a small grunt, tossing it to Kel who immediately began to   
lick it clean. 

"Did. . .you have to. . .carve those. . . Spice Girls   
lyrics in his chest?" 

"*You* were the one who said we had to do something to,   
what was it? 'defray suspicion' should the body be found   
too quickly."

Kel smiled dreamily even as she began to slice patterns in   
the air with the gleaming blade. "I *do* wish we could   
stick around to watch the inevitable raids on local junior   
highs. . ."

"Flat-chested field hockey chicks led wailing to j.d. . .   
."

"To meet girls like you, no doubt. No, I was thinking more   
along the lines of the cheerleading squad, cartwheeling   
gleefully over to the bleachers, there to--"

"Assume the position in perfect synchronicity?"

The lovers continued in this vein for several more minutes   
before deciding that it was time to be rid of their silent   
companion. After driving to a slightly less exposed spot   
some 5 miles down Route 3, Kel tossed the bundle over her   
shoulder and carried it a few hundred yards into the   
swaying, molesting weeds. When the brown-skinned woman   
returned to the truck she lit her entire book of matches   
and tossed it carelessly over the guardrail before yawning   
hugely and snuggling into Nikki's warmth.

"Where to next?"

"Mmmm. . .There's this positively obnoxious sports bar just   
outside of Philly. . ."

The blaze followed them for several exits before fading to   
a simple smudge on the horizon, the stained thumbprint of   
some careless god. 

IV.

There's a shadow just behind me,  
shrouding every step i take,  
making every promise empty  
pointing every finger at me. . .

FBI Headquarters  
A.D. Walter Skinner's Office  
Washington D.C.  
10/31/96  
7:12 a.m.

Walter Skinner had given up on the attempt to get any rest   
when he caught himself fluffing his pillows for the fourth   
time. By 5 a.m. he had showered, eaten breakfast, and   
dressed for work. This last was the most irritating. He   
cursed himself for what had to have been the fiftieth time   
for not investing in suits made with a lighter fabric,

//Damned Indian Summer//

completely oblivious to the fact that the early morning   
temperatures were hovering steadily at around 40 degrees.   
After checking to make sure his gun was loaded (4 times)   
and that he had packed the extra clips (11) in his   
briefcase; he had driven himself in to work, planning on   
taking care

//of Them, once and for all//

of some extra paperwork that had apparently developed the   
ability (according to Kim) to breed asexually in his   
absence. There was also the matter of sending word of   
Mulder's

//mouth//

vacation through the appropriate channels, so as to avoid   
any bureaucratic unpleasantness. The first hour had gone   
reasonably well, in his opinion. (Though Agents Waxman and   
Rogers would later spend a number of hours pondering   
comments on their reports along the lines of "Needs cumin"   
and "Moxie. Everybody loves moxie.") However, despite   
having appropriated the fan from Mulder's

//fascinating mole//

office and shooting out all of his windows, Skinner was   
still far too warm. The suit jacket went first, right out   
the window, followed in short order by his tie, shirt, belt

//Mulder//

and pants. This improved the situation dramatically, and he   
continued to tear busily through the rapidly diminishing   
pile of paperwork, humming as he went. 

Kim walked into the outer office shortly after 7 am, only   
mildly surprised to hear that the Assistant Director had   
preceded her. Shivering at the inexplicable chill in the   
air, she quickly began to prepare for his morning report. 

Skinner heard the click of heels in the corridor and   
narrowed his eyes in anticipation,

//They've come//

continuing to hum tunelessly in order to lull the intruders   
into thinking that their arrival had gone unnoticed. Moving   
with feline grace, he crouched behind his desk: gun cocked   
and ready, a happy tune on his lips.

V.

. . .Ma please flush it all away. . .

Anywhere, USA  
10/31/96  
7:55 a.m.

The trees had shed their leaves for the coming winter and   
they stretched skeletal branches to scratch at the grey   
morning sky. Unkindnesses of rooks wheeled in the heavens   
above highways made almost homey by the litter of vehicles   
strewn haphazardly about like so many toys made bereft by   
their owners for the promise of milk and cookies. Of   
course, Matchbox cars tend to lack occupants, and the still   
morning air was rent here and there by the wail of horns   
fading slowly as batteries died. In the cities cats yowled   
their displeasure in concert with the never-ending chorus   
of sirens as dogs rummaged unconcernedly through half-  
looted bodegas. Late season flies buzzed and whirled in   
drunken anger, dismayed at their own sluggish inability to   
feast. All over a freshly blooded country otherwise healthy   
people huddled in their attics and basements, armed with   
everything from waffle irons to machine guns, and waited   
for an end.

VI.

I’m treadin water  
i need to sleep a while  
my lamb and martyr  
you look so precious

British Airways Flight 201 to London  
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean  
10/31/96  
Morning

Fox Mulder was trying very hard not to commit an act of   
violence. Sprawled bonelessly in the window seat next to   
his, forehead smoothed of anything resembling care, Alex   
Krycek was asleep. He had, in fact, been nearly comatose   
since approximately 12 seconds after boarding the plane. 

//He said he'd answer my questions//

//Correction, Mulder: He said he'd answer all the questions   
he *could*. It's hard to talk when you're dead to the   
world.//

//Alex Krycek: Dead. . .You know, it's not often that you   
come up with such lovely images.//

//He traveled halfway across the country nonstop to get you   
the information, Mulder. Have you given any thought to--//

//He has no right to look like that. . .//

A careful observation of first class seats 3A and B would   
have revealed the following: A pale and beautiful man,   
vaguely youthful in appearance, obsessively molded and   
shaped baseball cap slightly askew, showing a hint of   
painfully short dark hair. Astonishingly long lashes lie   
still on cheeks faintly elongated by the parting of rose   
colored lips. He is handcuffed to the armrest. The   
sleeping man is being studied intently by the older man   
beside him. This man's back is to the aisle, tension   
clearly evident in the set of his shoulders, even under the   
heavy wool trench. Long, tapered fingers-- pianist's   
fingers--grip the folds of too-loose jeans. .   
.occasionally relaxing, only to fist again in white   
knuckled emotion. Despite all this, the oddly handsome face   
remains devoid of all feeling save for eyes that flash   
briefly golden as the plane breaks through the clouds,   
burning with something not quite definable. 

Some two hours ago Mulder had been pacing angrily around   
boarding area 34. Eight minutes before that a morosely   
snuffling Candi

//Oh yes, she just had to spell it with an "i."//

had taken offensively obvious pleasure in informing the   
agent that they could only wait 10 more minutes before   
takeoff. Krycek had yet to arrive. Gnawing savagely at the   
pad of a thumb and dreaming of a revenge involving nudity,   
honey and fire ants, Mulder had almost missed the younger   
man's infuriatingly casual arrival. Almost.

"Sorry, Mulder; I slept through the travel ala--"

Alex's sleepy drawl was cut off by the brusque snap of a   
cuff on his right wrist as Mulder attached the other to his   
own left and began to yank him roughly down the concourse,   
shooting a glare at the startled Candi. Alex's half-lidded   
eyes widened at the treatment, then dipped again in   
amusement.

"Gee, Mulder, I usually save this for the fourth date--but   
for you I can make an exception. . ."

Mulder barely restrained himself from slapping his own   
forehead in frustration: His poorly thought out arrangement   
made it impossible for him to punch the smirk off Krycek's   
face without a lot of undignified twisting. 

//Should've conferred with Scully.//

He settled for aiming another glare toward the man and   
dragging him even more roughly down the corridor. When they   
arrived at their seats Mulder quickly unsnapped the cuff on   
his wrist, jammed it down on the armrest and shoved a   
distressingly submissive Alex down and back against the   
window. He then sat himself, jerking the fabric of his   
jeans a little to save the knees, and clenched his newly   
freed hand in preparation for the inevitable smart ass   
remark. Which didn't come. He finally looked a challenge at   
his companion, only to find him fast asleep.

"Kryc--"

//No, Mulder. Let the man sleep.//

//Wha--No, you're right. If I wait until he's well and   
truly comatose and *then* wake him. . . he'll be easier to   
question. Thank you.//

//That's no--//

Mulder cut off the flow of his thoughts with the satisfying   
crunch of a sunflower seed. . .An old trick. Two hours   
later he sat gazing at his former partner. It was time for   
some answers. A playful grin pulled at his lips as he   
remembered a particularly irritating way to wake someone   
up, dredged from the dim dead days of summer camp. When the   
stewardess brought him his ice water he detached a hand   
from its prior denim abuse, moderately surprised by the   
twinge of stiffness, dipped one thin finger and patiently   
waited for it to numb. After a minute or two he removed it   
and carefully patted it dry on the napkin. Barely   
repressing a chuckle he began to tap the chilled fingertip   
lightly and rhythmically against the sensitive upper bridge   
of Alex's nose. . .only to freeze mid-tap when the formerly   
peaceful young man suddenly attempted to push himself   
backwards through the side of the plane, 

//angelic//

face twisted into a rictus of terror. Mulder found himself   
staring into green eyes that blazed fiercely without   
recognition.

"Yes, Mot--" In an instant the fear shifted to pure rage as   
Mulder's identity registered with the other man, and then   
the agent was watching in open fascination as the usual   
mocking shutters snapped briskly into place. "Mulder. What   
is it?" There was a tired petulance in the tone, but,   
despite the bruised hollows of his face, the klieg-bright   
eyes belied the affectation.

//Mother, not Mom or Momma. . .formalized familial   
relationship . . .excessive reaction implies some form of   
abuse. . .//

//Question now, profile later.//

"I want my answers, Krycek."

"This couldn't wait until--" A sigh. "Of course it   
couldn't. Ask away, Mulder." Alex's right eye had begun to   
tear involuntarily from exhaustion and Mulder found himself   
riveted by the other man's furious attempts to dry his   
face.

//Human weakness angers him. . .I wonder--//

//Later, dammit!//

"What?!" Real weariness had crept into Krycek's tone this   
time, and Mulder wordlessly handed him his clean napkin. As   
expected, shock at the unexpected consideration was briefly   
visible.

//Barriers are weakened. Strike now.//

Turning to block all view of the aisle, he began: "What do   
you know about the virus? When did you know it? Why do you   
care?"

//Good question. . .//

Alex blinked ingenuously at Mulder and smirked a little.

//I'm on to your little game, Foxy. Nobody mindfucks like a   
shrink. . .but I'm no virgin.//

He made a brief show of wiping the moisture from his   
bloodshot eye and leaned past the other man to make a grab   
for the drink, taking advantage of the cramped space to   
brush lightly against Mulder's chest, inwardly treasuring   
the tension in the older man's form and the brief hiss of   
pain the agent was unable to wholly stifle.

//Hope Scully survives long enough for me to thank her for   
that.// 

He locked eyes with his companion as he leaned back, but   
the effect was somewhat spoiled by the tremor in his hand.

//Damn. . .you really are tired, Alexei. Can't let the man   
have *all* our secrets. . .//

Mulder watched the performance closely, eyes narrowed and   
head tilting slightly to the side as he wondered what, if   
anything, to make of it.

//I set him off somehow.//

//Probably just wants you to know that *he* knows that   
you're fucking with him.//

//And he's clearly not happy with that. Right. Back off,   
Mulder. You need him right now.//

The agent continued to meet Alex's eyes for another moment   
before dropping his own.

"Look, Krycek, just tell me what you know."

//Ooohhh. . .look, Alexei: sympathetic and *contrite*   
Mulder. And you didn't even have to take anyone hostage.//

Alex felt an angry wince coming on, so he rubbed his   
wounded arm to cover it. Unwilling to watch Mulder lie to   
him with his eyes, he closed his own, methodically wiping   
all traces of emotion from his features before beginning to   
speak. The subsequent words issued from the bland mask of   
a marble statue.

"I was recruited to spy on you because I could look and act   
the role of a naive young agent with a mild case of hero   
worship. Apparently, I did an exceptional job of it because   
somewhere along the way the man you know as Cancerman began   
to. . .take me for granted. . ."

A small crack in the facade as Alex's mouth twitched dryly,   
an expression that wasn't quite strong enough to become a   
full smile. 

"Occasionally phone calls were answered in my presence,   
meetings began without my prior dismissal. . .and I did my   
damnedest to make sure all their spook training didn't go   
to waste. No pun intended, Mulder. I watched. I listened.   
And one of the things I heard about. . .”

//You *will* tell me all of it, Krycek.//

“. . .project that had been aborted some 20 years ago. A   
team of scientists, which included Dr. Goralev, was to   
have designed a virus that would only affect those members   
of the population who had been equipped with a certain type   
of biomechanical implant--"

"The abductees--"

//Scully--//

"Yeah. If the project had been allowed to continue to   
completion, the virus would theoretically have worked as a   
kind of bastardized trigger to the dormant implant,   
allowing a rough variety of mind control over the victims."

"But the aliens found out about it and ordered the project   
closed-"

"And all traces of the experimental product destroyed,   
along with the surviving test subjects."

//Destroyed. . .Jesus. . .so many things to answer for--//

//And did he just confirm the existence of extraterrestrial   
life?//

"So who decided to share their souvenir with the world?"

"I really don't know for sure, Mulder. The leader of the   
militia group that got me 

//Us.//

out of that fucking silo. . .”

//The oil alien! What does he know?//

“. . .thing about a "Man of the Lord" right before breaking   
the vial-- but by then I was working rather hard to get my   
ass out of there."

"What do you know about the unfinished. . .product? And are   
you telling me you got all this because Cancerman got   
absentminded?"

"Hell, Mulder, for all I knew back then I thought they were   
trying to recruit me for 'better' things. And anyway, all I   
got from those *occasional* meetings were the words   
'Goralev' and 'plague' in the same sentence. The rest of it   
I learned from the sections of the DAT tape that I was able   
to decode before our little meeting in Hong Kong."

//That would be one of those beatings I was referring to   
earlier, by the way.//

//Hey, but I made Foxy listen to me, didn't I?//

"As for the plague-in-a-bottle, well, here's where things   
get a little spotty. I'll just tell you what I know for   
sure. 1. They weren't able to narrow the deployment of the   
agent very well at all; experiments showed that it would   
affect anywhere from half to 80% of a given population, and   
100% of those people with implants. 2. In and of itself the   
bacterium is not fatal. All it does is convince the   
pituitary--"

"Which controls hormone production . . ."

"Right. . ." Alex waved his hand in irritation. "--that   
certain neurotransmitter levels are dangerously low, thus   
spiking their production. At the same time, it gives   
people a slight cold. 3. All this hormonal activity causes   
the body temperature to rise, and that combined with an   
excessive amount of chemicals like serotonin and dopamine--  
"

Fox nodded impatiently."Gives you a large portion of the   
general public having astonishingly bad trips, complete   
with paranoia and a host of . . .inappropriate emotional   
reactions. What's worse the victims probably don't even   
*realize* they're acting irrationally. . ."

//And why does *that* sound familiar?//

//Relax. Keep him talking.//

"But shouldn't it be a self-defeating mechanism?"

"How do you mean?"

"A high enough fever and cells start to die, including   
those of the original pathogen, leaving the remaining   
invader wide open to attack by the body's defense system   
and/or antibiotics."

"Sorry, Mulder, I was a Political Science major. What I   
know for sure is that traditional antibiotics had limited   
success at best, and that there's some evidence that other   
members of the team were responsible for some of the   
earlier work on antidepressants. Look, Mulder, these   
people's greatest priority was covering their own asses.   
It's probable that the experiments that *weren't* published   
could have had some information that could help us stop   
this."

Mulder watched his companion, fascinated that, save for the   
restless roll of eyes behind sealed lids, 

//What does he see when he talks about this?//

the deceptively young face remained a cipher. 

//A callously beautiful youth speaking atrocities as if   
reading from a history text.//

Made irritable by the turn of his thoughts, the agent was   
unable to retain his carefully constructed demeanor of   
patient acceptance. 

"OK, so we're gonna buy the world a Prozac. I understand   
all that. But why, Krycek?"

"Why what?" Alex heaved a yawn no less authentic for its   
ostentation.

"Why are you helping me? What's in this for you?"

//Um. . . 'cause I'm really, *really* sorry?//

//Look, Alex, *you* might be fucked up enough to want to   
make him beat you some more but *I'm* not--//

//Newsflash: If I'm sick enough for something so are you,   
by definition.//

//Just because we share a body doesn't mean we share   
psychoses.//

"Mulder, I need your help to get some of the heat off me.   
As much as you don't want to hear this, we really do have   
the same enemies--"

"I never played Step'n Fetchit for the--"

"Didn't you?" Alex's eyes had finally shot open in a bleary   
rage. "Mulder, you were their boy nearly as much as I was.   
. .The only difference is that they *paid* me for it--" 

The older man cut him off with a backhanded blow to the   
face and shook him by the rumpled collar of his leather   
jacket. 

//Well, it was nice while it lasted. . .//

"Don't you try to compare us, you--"

Alex used his free hand to try to disengage Mulder's from   
his collar, but the agent held fast, not even flinching at   
the sickening creak of small bones in an iron grip.

"Fuck off, Mulder! A tip here, an oh-so-mysterious phone   
call in the night there, the mystical token of *truth*--"

//One piece at a time. . .//

". . .and running. You tell me not to compare us when   
you've spent the past, what? 5 years? More?. . .getting   
played by a never-ending stream of liars--"

"Including you!" Mulder hadn't meant to blurt this last out   
and immediately bent his head to rummage for his sunflower   
seeds.

//And that hurts the most, doesn't it, Fox?//

Krycek smirked inwardly and slackened his grip on the other   
man's hand, leaving it resting lightly on the clenched   
fist. He allowed the rage to drain from his eyes, replacing   
it with the closest approximation of guilt he could muster.

"Mulder, I. . ." 

Mulder narrowed his eyes at the soft tone and jerked   
upright again. The younger man took one look at the   
swirling mass of bile and sorrow in his gaze and decided to   
let his very real fear of bodily harm manifest itself in   
the bob of his Adam’s apple.

//Don't look, Mulder don't look at us don't let us lie to   
you again--//

//Shut up and let me work! Besides, it's not as though I'm   
actually *telling* a lie. . .//

"I'm not even going to try to offer you any explanations   
for the things I did to you when I was with the consortium.   
The only thing I can say to you is that sometimes you don't   
get to choose. . ."

Mulder bored his stare into the other man's eyes, his fist   
clenching once under the warm palm as he struggled to find   
the fiction in Krycek's words, in his face.

//Nothing in that little speech was remotely specific   
enough to be an actual lie, and his eyes. . .the softness   
and brief flash of anger in his tone. . .fear of my touch   
in his eyes even as he covers my hand with a gentle one. .   
.//

//Not again. Never again.//

After another moment Alex dropped his eyes and felt the   
hand at his throat slowly loosen. Sensing the impending   
removal, he let his index finger rest a little heavier on   
the other man's knuckles so that it dragged on them as   
Mulder jerked away.

//Oh, he remembers all right.//

//Why don't we feel anything at this? We would have--we   
must have once--what's wrong with us?//

The mocking, angry deadness of his other appeared in   
Krycek's tone, as he had known it would.

"I had the MJ tape for 5 months before Hong Kong, Mulder. I   
took the precaution of making copies of all the files I was   
able to recover, re-encoding them, and mailing them to an.   
. . associate. . .of mine in St. Petersburg. I'm not sure   
how far you'll be able to go with the information but it   
will be a start, at least."

"It just doesn't wash, Krycek. What else is in this for   
you?"

//Do you *really* have to ask, Fox?//

"Mulder, you have the cloak of legitimacy. You can do   
things I can't. . ."

//Just as he can do things *you* can't.//

Eyes still determinedly downcast, Alex missed the increased   
tension in Mulder's jaw as he continued. ". . .I want. . .I   
*need* to be able to stop running for at least a little   
while. Any damage you can do to those bastards gives me   
that much more of my life back, Mulder."

"You don't deserve a life, Krycek. But. . ."

//Keep it down, boy; just Keep. Your. Cool.//

Mulder noticed the brief flutter of the other man's lashes   
but didn't let himself dwell on it too deeply. "If you do   
this. . .if you help me end this plague, and tell me   
everything you know I promise to do all that I can." 

//To bury you under the heaviest goddamn prison I can find   
once I've wrung you dry you manipulative sonofabitch.//

"It's all that I ask, Mulder."

//But not all that I'll get, you mindfucking asshole.//

VII.

when i went to school oh  
when i went to school hah hah  
when i went to school in Olympia  
and everyone's the same

Williams College  
Mission Park Dorm, Dennett 424  
10/31/96  
12:35 p.m.

"God DAMMIT, Mara, would you please tell me *why* I'm a   
chemistry major?"

"Lab today?"

"Not scheduled, no, but I have to go in any goddamn way to   
work on identifying my unknown."

"Ah. I see."

"What?"

"*Nothing*, Betty."

"Mara--"

"Well it's just that now I understand why you felt the need   
to drag me out of my nice, warm--"

"Moldering--"

"--*comfortable* bed and make me keep you company at   
lunch."

"Well they *did* have chicken tenders. . ."

"Which you promptly booted up as soon as we got back here.   
. .just how much *did* you have to drink last night?"

"Not all *that* much. I think my body is just rebelling.   
Speaking of last night. . . "

"Yes?"

"Does what's-his-name bring the Mara-base up over 30?"

"No, *Bill* is number 32."

A snort. "Better slow down, girl. Leave some for junior   
year."

"But there'll be a whole *new* class available next year. .   
.By the way, what was wrong with Christopher?"

"You mean besides the fact that he's 3 inches shorter than   
me and drools?"

"He was drooling for *you.*"

"Sorry, babe. I'm allergic to meatheads."

"*I* think he's cute."

"Blech. He's got the seduction technique of an octopus. You   
*know* I hate that."

"Yeah I do. . .I always wondered about that, you know."

"What, the touching thing?"

"Yeah."

"Well. . .my family is a lot more reserved about that kind   
of thing than yours is. We hug good-bye whenever I leave   
for school and that's about it."

"Hah! Won one. Sorry. . .go on."

A chuckle. "You and that damned solitaire game. How many   
times can you play Klondike?"

"Um. . .438. Your point?"

"None at all. Gimme one of those."

The snick of a lighter.

"Thanks. Anyway. . .there's also the fact that whenever I   
get PMS-y I just feel so. . .icky. . .that I can't stand to   
be touched at all."

"Hmm. . .OK. I can understand that."

"I knew you would, Mara. That's always been one of my   
better stories."

"Wha. . .?"

"Nothing, Mara. It's just that I've always been rather   
proud of that lie."

"Lie? Betty?"

"Call me Elizabeth. I was just saying that my whole   
rationale for avoiding physical contact with. . .people. .   
.is a lie. Would you like to know the real reason, Mara?"

"Wha. . .okaaay. . ."

"When I was four years old my thirteen year old brother   
sexually abused me. Repeatedly. To this day I simply cannot   
abide the touch of other people. It makes my skin crawl.   
You make my skin crawl, Mara. Rutting around this filth-  
ridden hellhole like some bitch in heat. . .Have you no   
shame?"

"Bet--"

The susurrus of denim on cotton. A gurgle. The snap of   
bone.

"I *told* you to call me Elizabeth, Mara."

VIII.

I wanna see the ground give way  
I wanna see it all go down

FBI Headquarters  
Outside A.D. Walter Skinner's Office  
Washington D.C.  
10/31/96  
3:04 p.m.

Special Agent Brian Pendrell was sweating under his Level 4   
contamination suit. Brian was taking no chances. He had   
received the phone call from the Centers for Disease   
Control approximately two hours before, while clearing away   
some routine scut work.

@@@@@  
//*This* is what I trained for?//

His lab was both neat,

//A place for everything.//

and empty. That was something, at least: to ostensibly only   
be taking care of the drudgery because his "assistant"

//slack-jawed idiot//

had called in sick, leaving him to wash bottles in peace.

//as if I didn't have to clean up after him anyway//

The sight of the oddly empty bullpen suggested that young   
Johnson hadn't been alone. 

//Nasty flu this year. . .glad I got my booster.//

In the uncharacteristic quiet, Brian could pretend he had   
competent assistance, someone

//stolidly professional//

who would cheerfully take care of all the bureau bee ess   
and let him get to *work*. Then maybe, just maybe,

//she'd notice me//

he would get the sort of notice he deserved.  
@@@@@

His pleasant reveries had been brutally ended by the phone   
call, however, and its direct result had put him here:   
clean-suited, crouched behind a hastily erected barricade   
of cheap office furniture, aiming a brand new assault   
rifle 

//single shot *and* automatic//

at the splintered remains of Assistant Director Skinner's   
door, and surrounded by dead agents. 

In retrospect, Brian supposed he really should've known   
his day would end badly from the moment he'd picked up the   
phone. Dr. Harbald, "of the CDC, young man!" had been   
downright surly upon discovering that he was "not even a   
*field* agent?!" and had demanded to know why his was the   
only extension that anyone bothered to answer coherently.   
Of course she hadn't appreciated his joke about the   
vagaries of telephone existence at *all*. So he had done   
his best to calm the woman and connect her to someone whom   
she'd feel would be better qualified, only to discover   
that the problem was indeed on his end. He sighed.

"There must be a problem with the switchboard, Dr. Harbald.   
Why don't you tell me what the problem is and I'll have   
someone

//me, who *else*//

take the message to my Assistant Director. I believe he's   
in today."

*That* had only made Dr. Harbald angrier, launching her   
into a tirade about issues of national security being   
"shunted off to glorified secretaries". . .until Brian had   
politely reminded her that most secretaries don't have   
doctorates in biochemistry and carry a gun. After insulting   
him for several more minutes she had finally deigned to   
give him her message. Apparently Agent Mulder

//Arrogant jerk. He doesn't deserve to shine her shoes,   
much less . . .//

had received a tip about a terrorist group releasing some   
bioengineered plague out west. Harbald had just been able   
to confirm Mulder's information, and offered the theory   
that the pathogen appeared to act on the body like some   
form of lysergic acid. For some incomprehensible reason,   
she had spent the next twenty minutes ranting about how   
the CDC should get more respect from Washington. Only after   
she had begun to wind down did she mention the fact that   
the disease might well be airborne in nature and already   
present in the capital. That little piece of news had   
sparked another argument about Ms. Harbald's   
irresponsibility, Brian's foolishness, her   
unprofessionalism, his. . .and so on and so forth until he   
had been left with the meanest-sounding dial tone he had   
ever heard. What with all of that it was nearly 2:00 before   
he finally managed to get out of his lab to deliver the   
message.

And immediately ducked back in at the unmistakable sounds   
of gunfire and screams echoing through the halls of the   
Bureau.

//All right Pendrell, stop and think. Point one: If this   
was any normal situation requiring deadly force within the   
Bureau, say, an armed terrorist attack, someone, somewhere   
in the building, would have tripped the alarms. The alarms   
haven't been tripped, and the power is obviously still on.   
Ergo: this is *not* a normal situation. Point two: The   
Harbald woman said there was a chance that the plague,   
whatever it is, had gotten to D.C. This plague causes   
people to act irrationally. Point three: There is nothing   
more irrational than gunfire within FBI Headquarters.   
Point four: You need to do something with this information.   
Point five: It would be nice to stay alive while doing it.   
. .//

Brian's thoughts had trailed off as he concluded, much to   
his regret, that he couldn't simply stay in the lab. After   
arguing with himself for another several minutes over just   
how to protect himself out there he had decided to put on a   
containment suit

//It's not as though they'll know who to laugh at.//

and had made his way through the now quite silent halls to   
the armory to find a better weapon than his sidearm. Once   
there he debated the relative merits of full body armor   
versus his suit, but in the end he determined the plague   
was the greater threat. 

He hadn't recognized anyone in the mangled sprawl that was   
the anteroom--at least until he saw Kim. She had a pleasant   
smile on her face and Pendrell was momentarily confused as   
her only slightly rumpled form, curious breeze riffling   
escaped strands from her coiffure playfully, didn't seem to   
belong

//Everything in its place.//

among the rest. However, Brian was nothing if not a   
consummate researcher and he soon realized that the top of   
her head was quite missing.

//Where--? Oh, there. . .and there. . .//

Instinct made him painstakingly and thoroughly catalogue   
the whereabouts of the secretary's remains, and so it was   
that he completely missed the movement within the cluttered   
shadows of the office. Until, of course, the bullet tore   
through the (thankfully) oversized hood of his L-4,   
shattering the face plate before burying itself in the   
opposite wall. 

//So much for L-4 protocols.//

Brian dove for the floor behind Kim's desk without a   
second's further hesitation and flicked off the safety from   
his rifle.

"Assistant Director Skinner!"

"That's Captain Skinner to you, boy!" 

//Captain?//

Brian squinted into the darkness in an attempt to find the   
source of the disembodies voice, only too aware that the   
chill draft and cluttered firing line would distort any   
movement he tried to make out. He chose to ignore the   
wetness seeping from what felt like dozens of tiny cuts on   
his face.

"As--Sir! There's reason to believe that you have   
contracted a virus that has impaired your ability to think   
clearly--"

"That's enough, Private! Consider yourself on report for   
insubordination in a combat zone."

//Combat zone? Oh. Oh dear.//

"S-sir. . .the. . .uh. . .the point man?"

Silence.

//Right. Our Father, Who Art in Heaven, Hallowed. . .//

"The point man got a message to me. . .We're about to be   
overrun by. . .by. . ."

"Them?"

//--Us Each Day-- was that movement?//

"Y-y-yes, sir. Them. I. . .I'm injured, sir. . .pinned down   
out here. . ."

//There!//

"Hold tight, soldier, I'm gonna get you to safety."

//. . .Thy Kingdom Come. . .//

Brian moaned piteously to excuse the small movement that   
allowed him to raise the rifle, and suddenly Skinner was   
there. An apparition dressed only in black silk boxers,   
made impossibly modest by the fact that every square inch   
of exposed skin had been meticulously covered in the   
standard green and black jungle camouflage pattern. With. .   
.what appeared to be Magic Marker. 

//. . .Thy Will Be Done. . .//

Walter Skinner hadn't even bothered to look at Brian, had   
apparently forgotten that he was "on report" for that   
matter, and was now on all fours scanning and. . .sniffing.   
. .for the Enemy.

//I'm sorry, sir. . .//

The shots were clean; despite the difficult angle, 

//This is what I trained for.//

his first bullet had flipped the A.D. onto his back. The   
second had gone into the heart. When the painted chest   
finally stopped hitching, Special Agent Brian Pendrell   
stood up,

//Sometimes you don’t get to choose.//

allowed himself to pry stiff fingers from the rifle, and,   
painstakingly and thoroughly, lost his breakfast.

IX.

Waiting like a stalking butler  
who upon the finger rests.  
Murder now the path called "must we"  
just before the son has come.  
Jesus, won't you fucking whistle  
something but the past and done?

Gentil Pines Trailer Park  
Rock Creek, MD  
10/31/96  
4:08 p.m.

Jethro T. Briggs, late of the Freedom First militia group,   
more recently of the indigent ward of Markinson's Mental   
Health Institution, was praying. That much would have been   
obvious to any observer, for Mr. Briggs was a man of   
conspicuous devotion. Beneath the hem of his chastely   
closed (if disheveled) pale green hospital gown his thighs   
trembled with the effort of kneeling. His stubbled blond   
head was bent low, bloodshot eyes blinking with weary   
piety at the browning grass, and every few moments the one   
observer present (Eugene Carter, former high school gym   
teacher) could just see the blue veins of clasped hands   
wriggle. Two days earlier, kind

//Angels//

nurses had tenderly sponged him

//Pure//

clean of the detritus of his travels, and had given him

//Balm//

morphine so he could rest while doctors reattached his   
tongue. By now it was gone again, of course. Jethro had   
realized on the plane that

//Demons//

something was very wrong with him indeed, for hadn't   
Brother James promised them salvation? Why had he failed to   
believe? But he had recognized the error of his ways, how   
his 

//Womanish//

pride had led him to believe he had the right to speak out   
against the just and worthy cause Brother James had led. He   
had been horrified and deeply saddened by his betrayal. He   
had vowed to 

//Do Penance//

try to make up for it--for the rest of his life if   
necessary-- and his first act along the road to redemption   
was the removal of his own cowardly tongue. Of course the   
doctors had meant well with their efforts, but they were 

//Too Much of the World//

wrong. He even understood their efforts to restrain him,   
for hadn't he been in the very presence of 

//Him//

Brother James and doubted? But Jethro knew he must not   
allow human weakness to hold him back from his appointed   
punishment. Later they had stanched his wound and promised   
to let him rest for a while in the day room, but though he   
had waited patiently no one came for him. He had tossed   
restlessly through the night but no one came with the   
dawning of day. He had grown hungry and longed for the   
contact of others, but still no one came. He had finally   
come to understand that this was the way of things, that he   
must struggle

//. . .Sorely Tested. . .//

if he were ever truly to walk in the light again. And so he   
had girded himself and rocked the rusting iron frame bed   
over to the countertop on the other side of the room. The   
process had taken several hours in his drugged and weakened   
condition, but he had persevered, sure of his faith in Him

//Brother James//

at last. And had he not been rewarded? Had not there been a   
carton of sharps just within his restricted reach? After   
that he'd freed himself in mere minutes, though he'd had   
to rest again before he could leave the infirmary. 

Jethro had found Eugene almost immediately, a great   
mountain of a trusty who had been kicking disinterestedly   
at a woman's crepe soled shoe with seeping grommets. He   
had declined the offer to play soccer with a shake of his   
head and had begun to make his way toward the exit when he   
realized that another sign had been placed in his very   
path. This man could help him, speak those words he was no   
longer 

//pure enough//

able to say, help him find his way, yea, a very pillar to   
bear him up when he grew weary! He had subsequently turned   
back to the dark- skinned man and beckoned him to follow.   
Some undefinable length of time later they had found   
themselves here in the Park, Jethro being quite certain   
that the first of his disciples would be found among the 

//downtrodden and meek//

inhabitants of such places. Whether or not this was true,   
however, he would never find out. Every man, woman, and   
child at this particular trailer park had been an abductee   
at least once in their lives (not to mention surviving any   
number of tornadoes, lightning strikes, etc.) and as such   
all had been mown down like wheat with the coming of the   
plague. After sifting through the rich fly-blown sweetness   
that had been the very last of the double wides, Jethro had   
knelt to pray for guidance. By this time, however, he had   
learned how to listen for that still small voice and after   
a time it had come to him. The pulsing agony that had been   
his tongue chirped and rippled through his exhausted flesh,   
and he found himself attempting to form words even through   
his mantraed prayer.

"Owwphh hurf."

"Owwphh *eeeweh* hurf."

"Owwphh. . ."

//Mouth. . .owwphh. . .South?//

"Sphowwph!"

As the impassive Eugene drove them down I-695, Jethro   
basked in righteous joy, sure at last of his place in the   
world. 

X.

My shadow's  
Shedding skin and  
I've been picking  
Scabs again.  
I'm down  
Digging through  
My old muscles  
Looking for a clue.  
I've been crawling on my belly  
Clearing out what could've been.  
I've been wallowing in my own confused  
And insecure delusions  
For a piece to cross me over  
Or a word to guide me in.  
I wanna feel the changes coming down.  
I wanna know what I've been hiding in  
My shadow.

Heathrow International Airport  
London, England  
Observation Lounge  
10/31/96  
8:28 p.m. (London time)

"Haven't you ever heard of the concept of personal space,   
Mulder?"

"I'm not letting you out of grabbing distance, Krycek."

"Whatever does it for you, *Fox*, but couldn't you at least   
save the cuffs for when we're in private?"

The détente was beginning to fray. Once again, Mulder had   
been forced to shackle himself to Alex and was unable to   
belt the man without risking damage to himself. He did   
manage to retaliate, though, abruptly redirecting their   
movements over to one of the conveniently bolted down   
tables where he could restrain the younger man long enough   
to smack him one on the back of his head. He was rewarded   
with a tightening around Krycek's eyes that marred his   
mask of mocking good humor just enough to satisfy. 

@@@@@  
After the younger man had answered his questions, Mulder   
had turned away and ignored him for the dubious lure of   
the in-flight magazine. When the agent had glanced up   
again Alex was coiled around himself in the leather seat,

//Bastard insists on first class, then curls himself up   
like a pillbug.//

his sleeping body slumped into a comma but for the bound   
wrist extended toward Mulder. As the glossy allure of   
overpriced trinkets faded, Mulder found himself staring at   
the other man 

//Killer. Liar. Traitor.// 

again, his gaze drawn this time to the fine brows. There   
was a martial quality to them, he decided--the taut yet   
subtle curve of the scimitar plainly evident in their arch.   
And then there was the lean musculature. . .he realized his   
earlier assessment of the man as being 

//unjustly// 

at peace with himself had been inaccurate. While the face   
remained as unlined as ever, it was clear that underneath   
his blandly nondescript clothing every muscle was flexed   
with tension. Mulder's brow wrinkled as he rifled the   
detritus of his mind for an analogy. A rubber band *did*   
imply the sting of eventual recoil but it wasn't quite

//painful//

enough, somehow. . .Perhaps a medieval longbow? That felt   
right to him--it had taken long conditioning for the men at   
Agincourt to develop the strength required merely to notch   
an arrow, and even then a momentary distraction could   
leave you maimed for life. Mulder supposed that it was   
only natural that he think of the man as a 

//tool//

weapon; what little information that he had on Krycek   
pointed to extensive combat training at some point. Either   
way, Mulder derived some satisfaction from the knowledge   
that the younger man couldn't achieve comfort in his   
exhaustion, and after a time he managed to drop off   
himself. 

". . .   
don'tscreamquietyourfaultthirstydarkletmeoutdon'tscream   
don'tyourfaultdon'tsodarkthirsty. . ." 

Mulder started awake with the muzzy impression that he had   
missed something important. He instinctively reached for   
Krycek, needing to reassure himself that the man was still   
there despite the fact that he was looking directly at him.

"Krycek, wak--"

With a moue of distaste, the agent pulled his hand back   
from the younger man's chilled and clammy flesh.   
Unthinkingly, he wiped his hand on his jeans as if to   
erase the other man's touch from his skin. As long as   
Krycek stayed relatively quiet Mulder would leave him to   
his dreams. He wasn't the man's psychologist and he   
certainly wasn't his friend;

//Let him suffer.//

therefore it wasn't his place to interfere. Mulder settled   
back in his seat and watched his companion writhe and   
mutter in his sleep. In the absence of the walls erected   
by consciousness, raw emotions etched themselves clearly   
on the other man's face and Mulder found himself mesmerized   
by their mercurial shifts: rage, terror, sorrow,

". .   
.pleasei'lldobetterdon'tithurtsdon'tleavemeherehavetobe   
strongsodarkhurtsthirstyletme. . ."

supplication, back to rage, to sorrow, to cunning. . .until   
finally the horror remained constant. Mulder's eyes gleamed   
at the sight.

//This is what I needed.//

The other man's palpable misery loosened the belt that had   
been around Mulder's lungs since the night he had found the   
Morleys in his ashtray. He allowed himself a moment's   
fantasy of how things might have been, some fine and   
private place where his only need for the former agent was   
as a target for retribution. Krycek was already cuffed and   
moaning; it was really no stretch at all to imagine that   
the surprisingly deep furrows around his eyes were caused   
by punishment Mulder had inflicted, that the bestial   
stench of his companion's fear was in response, dizzyingly   
so, to Mulder alone.

" . . .*strong*!" 

Alex's own mercilessly stifled scream finally woke him, and   
its abruptness gave Mulder no opportunity to drown the   
brittle greed in his eyes before the younger man could see   
it.  
@@@@@

Mulder sighed as he remembered the look of shocked disgust   
on Krycek's face in that instant of comprehension. Both of   
them had spent the remainder of the flight in awkward,   
wakeful silence-- Alex unable or unwilling to refrain from   
shooting offended glances at Mulder, the agent all-too-  
viscerally reliving a visit from his mother at an   
inopportune moment when he was fourteen. 

". . .thirsty."

"What?!" Guilt skittered through Mulder's bowels as   
Krycek's soft words echoed his earlier mutterings far too   
closely.

"I asked if I could have a drink, Mulder. I'm thirsty."

//That's right, you twisted little voyeur. Thirsty. Just   
like I was then. . .but then you know that now, don't   
you?//

"Oh. . .Fine. I'll be right back." Mulder walked to the   
bar, tracked by Alex's narrowed gaze.

//You're lucky you got a great ass, Fox.//

//And that we're chained to this table. . .//

//How could he just *watch* me like that?//

//How much of what he is now are we responsible for? Where   
is it, Alex? *What* is it that we should be feeling now?   
It seems as though. . .//

//Well, Mother always said that if you can't remember it   
then it must not have been important in the first place.   
Now shut up and let me ogle before he comes back and we   
have to make him feel guilty some more.//

//It wasn't always like this?//

//'See that he gets home safe,' he said. Right. Easier   
fucking said than done.//

@@@@@  
Mulder's eyes narrowed at A.D. Skinner's summary dismissal   
and, heading back to his basement office, he brushed past   
Krycek as if the younger man were a piece of furniture.   
Alex cursed the older man silently, biting back the   
cuttingly obscene remark that had bubbled to the surface.

//Just a little while longer, Alexei. Stay in character.//

"Mulder! Wait up, I'll drive you home. . ."

In response Mulder shot him a look of such cold reproach   
that he flinched involuntarily and faltered--an action he   
couldn't have planned better, as the older agent   
immediately softened, though he still turned his back and   
continued wordlessly to the stairwell. This time Alex   
allowed his curses a little freedom, and sped up his own   
pace.

He reached the stairs only a few steps behind Mulder, but   
the older man began taking the steps two and three at a   
time, long legs scissoring recklessly over the concrete.   
Mulder radiated a febrile energy as he descended, his   
jerking movements a sickly parody of his usual unconscious   
grace, edging him closer and closer to an inevitable--

"Mulder!" Alex grabbed for the other agent's suit jacket   
as he saw him start to lose his balance. Unfortunately, he   
overcompensated and wound up yanking the man up a step,   
which caused them both to lose balance for real. They   
tumbled in an untidy heap onto the steps, landing with   
Alex's legs sprawled wide, Mulder's head thumped against   
his shoulder, back to his stomach. "Jesus, Mulder, you   
almost killed yourself!"

Krycek could feel the older man's muscles twitch randomly   
against him. It was as though Mulder had forgotten the   
physics of basic movement and could only bolt in his mind.   
Alex slipped an arm around the other man's chest 

//Like holding a bag of kittens. . .//

and awkwardly pulled them both upright again before   
releasing him save for a hand on the spasming shoulder.

"You're wiped, Mulder. You can't do a thing to help her in   
this condition."

//Or at all.// 

"Let's just get you home so you can be fresh tomorrow."

The other man didn't say a word, but reached up to give   
Alex's hand a 

//Grateful? Companionable? What the fuck?//

squeeze before continuing down the stairs--one by one this   
time.

Mulder stopped, seemingly puzzled, when they reached the   
garage, and Alex had to tug gently at his coat-sleeve to   
get him moving again. The drive to Alexandria passed in   
awkward silence, Alex dividing his attention between the   
road and the other man's back. Mulder was hunched facing   
the passenger window, apparently tracking the sluggish   
afternoon traffic. One hand, propped behind him, was his   
sole concession to proximity while the rest of the man was   
as far away from Alex as he could get. That hand was a   
winter spider, pale and still in the no-man's land between   
them. It seemed to bask in the muted light from the   
windshield, its fine dark hairs appearing delicate enough   
to sense the slightest shift of air currents within the   
car. It remained perversely motionless, however, and as   
such was vaguely troubling to the younger man.

//Always hated spiders.//

Alex pulled up to Mulder's apartment building, feeling a   
brief flare of territorial joy at being able to find a   
space right in front, and unlocked the doors. 

And waited.

"You're home, Mulder."

No response.

//Great. Snap out of it, Mulder, I've got things to do.//

He hesitated a moment, irrationally positive that jarring   
the hand would jump-start the somehow alien multi-limbed   
dance of the harvestman. He gritted his teeth against the   
mildly nauseating image and carefully enfolded the digits   
within his own before continuing.

"C'mon, Mulder. Let's get you upstairs."

The look he received in response was unreadable, and Alex   
instinctively tightened his hold on the other man's fingers   
for a second, unwilling to let the skitter that undoubtedly   
rested just beneath their surface break free. After a   
moment Mulder dropped his eyes and slowly unfolded himself   
from the car. Alex smiled ironically to himself

//Gotta get a grip on that imagination, Alex.//

before putting on his eager 

//and *ever* so naive//

junior G-man face and following the other man upstairs. The   
younger man allowed his mind to drift as he trailed Mulder   
up to his apartment, and so found himself blindsided by   
what happened next. As soon as Alex stepped inside the   
cluttered apartment Mulder slammed him against the wall,   
braced his hands on either side of Alex's head, and   
proceeded to lay waste to his stunned and unresponsive   
mouth.

//Ah. So *that's* what that look meant. Is this appropriate   
behavior for Agent Krycek? How naive should I be?//

The rest of his body decided to take at least part of the   
decision away from him when Mulder snaked a demanding hand   
down to the front of his trousers. Alex groaned into the   
pillaging mouth as what felt like most of the blood in his   
body relocated itself. Mulder responded by licking at his   
lower lip, apparently trying to get the response he could   
feel in the younger man’s cock to mirror itself in the   
shell-shocked face.

//This was *not* part of the assignment.//

Mulder broke the kiss and kneaded Alex through the cotton   
of his briefs.

//Jesus! When did he get my zipper down?//

“. . .seen those looks, how close you’d get to me--”

“What?!”

Mulder flattened his tongue against Alex’s cheek and sliced   
a hot path to his ear before continuing.

“I said: Stop fighting me, Alex. I know you want this. . .”

The hand slipped inside his briefs and freed his erection,   
the rough friction of Mulder’s palm making him gasp. 

“. . .all those glances, always barely a breath away from   
me. . .”

"Mulder, you need to sl--" Another quick ravaging kiss to   
quiet him.

"Don't tell me what I need, Alex. . .I want you. . .and   
tonight I need you, too."  
@@@@@

“. . .beer’s all right.”

“Wha--?”

“I said, I hope beer’s all right. The bartender said the   
coffee had been sitting around all day.”

//Dammit, Mulder, can’t you even let me have a fantasy in   
peace?//

//You *did* send him to get us a drink. How long did you   
think it would take?//

//Did I ever tell you what I did to my conscience?//

“Beer’s fine, Mulder. Thanks.”

Alex finally looked up at the other man, just in time to   
watch him consciously smooth his face clear of some   
emotion.

//Still feelin’ guilty, Foxy? You’re too easy. Anybody who   
knows about your little collection knows you like to   
watch.//

“You’re. . .

//not welcome never welcome again//

Mulder’s internal VCR insisted on playing the images of his   
earlier indulgence in Alex’s nightmares and he just barely   
restrained himself from kicking the other man in   
frustration before choking out “. . .welcome.”

Krycek hadn’t missed the pause and smiled darkly to   
himself.

//You know he’s only going to be angry with us for making   
him feel guilty--//

//Even though it’s his own damned fault. Of course. Time to   
switch gears.//

“Any chance of getting some food, Mulder?”

“I already checked, Krycek. They stopped serving dinner an   
hour ago. You’ll--”

“Just have to wait, I know." He fetched a regretful sigh.   
"You can’t get a good blood pudding just *anywhere*.”

“Krycek, that’s disgusting even for you. There is nothing   
worse than British cooking.”

“Hey, they had an empire to run, Mulder.”

Mulder heard the alarms going off in his head, but was   
unable to completely stifle his laughter.

//It shouldn’t be this easy to fall back into the old   
rhythms.//

“I’m not in the mood for small talk with you, Krycek.”

Alex kept his own delivery bland.

“Mulder, we have another hour before the plane leaves for   
St. Petersburg--”

“So why don’t you tell me about my father.”

//Well, this is new. . .why is he so calm?//

The younger man checked his watch, stalling a little.

“I guess I should be thankful that you didn’t feel the need   
to give me any new scars before asking me this ti--”

“Knock it off and talk, Krycek.”

//You have no idea what I need, you bastard. You never   
did.//

“What’s the point, Mulder? You’re never going to believe   
anything I tell you.” It took some doing, but Alex kept the   
weariness out of his voice.

“Like you said, Krycek: we’ve got another hour and I’m   
bored.” Mulder twisted the corner of his mouth up in a   
meticulously apathetic smirk. 

//Yes, this is the way. As long as I don’t give him   
anything to play with he stays off balance. Who knows, I   
may even get some answers out of him this time.//

The older man was deeply grateful for the arrogance of   
tradition that meant even laughably faux pubs like this one   
were kept dim. The gleam in his eyes was hidden; the game   
could continue.

//Which one? Suicide? A second assassin? That wouldn’t be   
*entirely* false. Oh, Mulder--//

“Well?”

“You know he was no innocent, Mulder. Do you really think   
he’d still be alive if I hadn’t pulled the trigger?”

Mulder covered his shock with a sip of his warm beer.

//He just admitted it to you. You wanted his ability to   
hide your emotions and feared that your questions would   
give him your rage again. So why is it that the mask fits   
so much better now?//

“So you did kill him.”

“Isn’t that what you always believed anyway?”

//Would I have been able to arrest him if he’d told me the   
truth that night? 

//Would I have killed him myself?//

The agent nodded once, scraped his chair back and stood.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a couple more beers. You want one?”

“Sure. . .”

//Well, this is new.//

//. . .//

//What, no commentary on the healing power of Truth?//

//I’ve been thinking about what you might have done to your   
conscience.//

Alex’s wicked smile died on his lips as he watched Mulder   
stumble a little on the way back to the table.

//He's only had one beer. Fuck.//

“Mulder?”

The older man tilted his head a little in question.

“How are you feeling?”

Mulder’s head snapped back in anger. “What is this, Alex?   
True confessions? I’m not going to fall apart just because.   
. .Oh *fuck*.”

“Exactly.”

“We can’t stop, Krycek. Not just because I’m sick.”

“If you think I have *any* intention of running around with   
you armed and high you’re already too damn sick for us to   
be *having* this conversation.”

Mulder fell into his seat and rubbed at his temples.

“Maybe you can steal me a big-ass bottle of Elavil.”

“Mul--”

“Forget your troubles, c’mon get hap--”

“Mulder! This is not the time to fuck around.”

//How can someone sound so prissy with a mouth like that? I   
guess it wasn’t *all* an act after all.//

Mulder bit back a giggle. He was feeling rather warm. “I   
know, Krycek, I know. . .it’s just. . .”

//What? Oh fuck, this is bad.//

“Mulder, stay with me for a while here. Back on the plane,   
what were you saying about it burning itself out?”

“Um. . .a high fever. . .”

//when you kiss me//

“Oooh, now *there’s* a thought I don’t want to have.”

“Fuckin’ A, do I even want to know? Never mind, don’t   
answer that.Here’s the plan: We are going to a hotel and   
holing up there *right* *now*--”

The agent was shaking his head vigorously if a little too   
loosely. “No, Alex, we can’t stop--”

//Alex? Hmmm. . .//

“We can’t travel with you flipping out, Mulder. We’re gonna   
test your theory, lie low for a few days, and hope. If   
you’re well enough to travel after that we’ll go on. If   
you’re not, I’ll go on myself.”

“How can I trust you to do that?”

“I’m not real fond of the idea of the world ending, Mulder.   
I keep all my stuff here.”

XI.

There's a fear down here we can't forget,  
Hasn't got a name just yet.   
Always awake, always around. . .

St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital  
Isolation Ward  
Washington, D.C.  
11/1/96  
7:03 a.m.

“And how are we feeling this morning, Dana?”

//This is why people hate doctors.//

“*I* am feeling perfectly well, Dr. Wittig. And if you   
can’t remember that I’m a doctor as well you can call me   
*Agent* Scully.”

Dr. Wittig gave Scully his best ‘You’re a very naughty   
patient, can’t you see you’re only hurting yourself?’ look.   
She responded with an expression that reminded the man of   
his mother at her most im- placable and made his brows   
knit. 

//Easy, Dana. Show him your competence. Show him your   
fundamental lack of faith in his own. Make him feel em-   
barrased, but not antagonized.// 

The agent adjusted her end of the silent dialogue to   
include a certain amount of world-weary humor. ‘Yes, we’re   
both quite irritated now, and isn’t it rather silly for   
people like *us* to be- have in such a way?’ Wittig   
softened immediately and made a show of checking her   
chart.

//Yes, that’s it, always play to the inherent elitism. .   
.now just--//

“Well, Do--Agent Scully, your fever has dropped nicely, and   
you are clearly no longer delusional--”

“Of course not, Dr. Wittig. I am fully aware of the trouble   
I caused while feverish and I apologize, but it *was*   
wholly due to my elevated temperature. I think it’s about   
time to get rid of these restraints, don’t you?” Dana   
smiled wryly as she tugged a bit at the right cuff.

//getthemoffgetthemoffgetthemoff//

“Wha--Oh, of course, Agent Scully.” He bent to unfasten the   
velcro, and Scully immediately swung her legs over the   
side of the bed. “But I really do think you should stay   
here another day or two for observation. The preliminary   
bloodwork we did shows your white count to be rather high.”

//Nobody asked for your opinion, Wittig.//

“I really should be getting back to work, Doctor.” Scully   
held up a hand to stop the inevitable protest. “Trust me,   
Dr. Wittig, I’m not planning *anything* more strenuous than

//the systematic mutilation of a certain federal agent// 

a little paperwork.” Scully smiled sweetly, pouring every   
bit of ‘trustworthy Catholic schoolgirl’ that she could   
into her even gaze.

//I will make him pay.//

“Agent Scu--”

“Besides, Doctor, these walls are not especially thick. It   
sounds to me as though you have quite the little epidemic   
on your ha--”

“Said epidemic being the reason you were brought in, Mi--  
Agent Scully.” The man was beginning to recover his   
composure.

“The *assumed* reason, Dr. Wittig. I understand that it was   
my

//Bastard//

partner who brought me in?"

"Well, y-yes, but you were--"

"Raving with fever. Of course. Agent Mulder is *not* a   
physician, Doctor. I am. I assure you that if my condition   
worsens in the slightest I will put myself to bed   
immediately.” 

Dr. Wittig began to show signs of further protest. 

“Really, Wittig, that *is* the only 'prescription' at this   
point isn’t it?”

It was a dismissal, and the doctor heard it as such. He   
narrowed his eyes at the agent, but she had already turned   
her back to him, rummaging through the cheap wardrobe for   
her sweats. When she finally faced him again, Scully   
affected to be surprised that Wittig was still present. A   
raised eyebrow.

“Was there anything else. . .?”

//Or were you just hoping for a peep show? That’s all you   
want, isn’t it? All *any* of you want.//

“. . .careful, Agent Scully.”

Dana flashed her most winning smile at the doctor to cover   
her distraction.

“Of course, Doctor. Of course I will.”


	3. Promises

Alex knelt on the cracking beige tile, trying very hard not   
to stretch his bruised and aching muscles too much. It had   
been a... strenuous... night.

//You just *had* to tell him to do it hard didn't you?//

//You think if I hadn't he would've been all tender   
caresses? I was *hoping* to appeal to his perverse love   
for disobeying orders.//

//Liar.//

In any case, he was sticky, stubbled, and stank to high   
heaven. His sleeping companion wasn't much better off and   
the bed sheets were an absolute disaster. But Alex was   
feeling generous, and a nice, long soak in the tub would do   
the both of them right. He'd found bath salts in Mulder's   
luggage--the good kind without all the irritating bubbles--   
and he let the scent of almonds wafted on steam carry him   
off to a precarious doze as he waited for the tub to fill.   
Suddenly, there was a hand around his neck and he gasped in   
a lungful of hot water.

"Good *morning*, sunshine!"

//Would this be the third or fourth time he's tried to kill   
you?//

//Third, I think...//

Mulder yanked him out of the tub. A bleary glance revealed   
that *this* time he'd simply yanked the iron bar he was   
cuffed to clear of the frame.

//I really need to stop sleeping around this man.//

"Mulder--"

"I don't like restraints, Alex."

Another ducking. Longer this time.

"You... didn't specify how... strongly you felt about it,   
Mulder."

Under again and his father was waiting for him. Grinning   
through the remnants of front teeth shattered by a shotgun   
barrel and beckoning.... beckoning...

"I thought I should clarify."

Alex felt the tightening that signified another duck. He   
sucked in a gasp through the acid burn in his lungs.

"Stop! Dammit, you *promised* we... we were done... with   
this..."

A thoughtful stroke along his nape.

"But you tied me up again..."

There were tears running down Alex's face, squeezing past   
lids clenched againt the agony of the salts.

"I... repeat... you did *not*... specify."

The hand finally left his neck, and Alex felt trembling   
arms wrap around his chest.

"Please, Alex... not the cuffs again.. I can't... you don't   
know..."

"I'll remember... but will you?"

//As if it matters...//

"There's noise in my head... always so fucking loud and   
sometimes I can't hear anything else... but you... you're   
always there and I know I could make you stop I know I   
could..."

Alex flexed his arms to make Mulder's fall away and stood.   
The older man was on his knees, arms limp at his sides,   
iron bar scraping at the ceramic with each twitch. His head   
was thrown back, and Alex could see the eyes roaming   
endlessly under straining lids. He rested a gentle hand on   
the pale shoulder and squeezed.

"I won't tie you up again, Mulder. But this... your oh-so-  
entertaining attempt at morning after angst... It has to   
stop."

The eyes shot open and fixed themselves firmly to Alex's   
own.

//Do you hear me breathing? Does it make you want to   
scream?//

"What else is there for us, Alex?"

The younger man squeezed again and Mulder rose to his feet,   
swaying lightly. Eye to eye and filthy with each other...   
there was a beauty to this. Alex kissed him lightly and   
backed away a little, making an expansive gesture taking in   
the brown on brown decor, the mildewed tile, the bare bulb   
buzzing piss-toned light on it all.

"With all this splendor at our fingertips do you even have   
to ask?" His other hand roamed to the darkened cheek and   
stroked.

A hoarse laugh, tantalizingly sane in its brevity. "I never   
figured you for a romantic."

"You always did bring out the best in me..."

Mulder leaned into the touch, finally, eyes stilled and   
fluttered half-shut for a moment.

"Alex... I need to not do this again..."

//*You* need?//

"What's it gonna take to make you keep your promises?"

"Mmm... a token, a gift... a way to remember you by... You   
have such nice hands, Alex..."

//You *did* hide the knife, didn't you?//

"How do you want them, Fox?" A wince, of course, but so   
long as he kept him *here*... "Tell me. Show me."

A crooked grin and Mulder stood straight, leaning in for a   
slow, gentle kiss before turning and kneeling again before   
the tub.

"Are you sure?"

Mulder tossed a 

//Challenge? Plea?//

look over his shoulder but didn't answer. "Then we'll do   
it your way. And you'll remember."

Alex knelt at the other man's side, trailing a hand over a   
spine rippling with tension, over downy cheeks and   
between, unable to keep himself from toying with the   
hardening flesh beneath his fingertips.

"We've already... tried this..."

Alex tugged lightly at the wiry hair, pressing close enough   
to whisper.

"And what makes you think I'll ever grow tired of the   
attempt?" A slow lick along a rough cheek. "But we'll play   
it your way."

The first slap was light, testing, met with what could only   
be a disappointed silence. Alex pulled himself down and in   
and let the memories slowly flood -- an indulgence he   
almost never allowed. Courtesies met with disdain, unwanted   
intimacies with car bonnets, phone banks and guns in his   
belly and mouth and it was all fire and anger and   
unanswered questions and his hand rose and fell over and   
over again and the shocks traveled unheeded down his arm   
and he was falling and buried wrapped up inside the then

//Anything you want.//

until the now could pierce through the clinging stifling   
fabric the rag-bag of a cluttered existence but as   
always...

"I promise!"

...Mulder was the fiery blade that could cut through all.   
Alex threw back his head and howled at the strain of   
pulling his last blow. The older man had his head bent,   
sobbing, hips bucking mindlessly at stained porcelain.   
When he could catch his breath he slipped one hand between   
the reddened thighs and tugged firmly on Mulder's sack. 

"Good. But not yet."

Alex tested the water; tepid again. He reached in and   
pulled the plug, then tugged Mulder to his feet again.

"Shower."

The older man simply stared, fixing him with a look of   
questions Alex simply did not have the capacity to answer.   
He washed them both as efficiently as possible, regretfully   
allowing the torn bandages around Mulder's wrists to   
loosen and slip off under the water. The older man was   
passive, slow blinks the only interruption of an otherwise   
steady gaze. The bar still dangled from the cuff on the   
right, and he knew it had to hurt. 

//Remember this, Mulder...//

It was only when carefully clinical hands began soaping   
Mulder's still-erect cock that he moved, threading the   
unencumbered hand through Alex's own and demanding a more   
pleasing touch.

"Alex... faster, please..."

"You always seem to get the best of these little moments."

"Give me this-- just this-- and I prom--"

Alex crushed the pale body to his own and cut off the flow   
of words, letting Mulder guide his hand as he wanted to   
and swallowing the moans in a kiss.

"One promise at a time, Mulder..."

******


End file.
